To Hold
by Jaclyn
Summary: Amidst inexplicable strife between Marguerite & Veronica, an unexpected arrival claims to be an integral part of Marguerite's past. So why doesn't she recognize him? And what does he want? Will Marguerite & Roxton's relationship survive the encounter?


**To Hold**  
By Jaclyn  
(musicnotej@aol.com; http://www.geocities.com/tlwmr)  


Disclaimer: In a shocking turn of events, it has been discovered that I DON'T own these characters! Can you believe it?! Sources have been whispering that The Lost World and all characters/places/stuff contained therein actually belong to Telescene, New Line, and all the rest. Oh yeah, and yesterday I read on the internet that I'm not making any profit off this story! Isn't that absurd?!

Timeline: Around the time of Legacy/Trapped, but neither of them have happened in this universe ;) 

Spoilers: Miniscule (one sentence) reference to Cave of Fear, and a line quoted from Trophies. 

Author's notes: A gigantic 'thank you' goes out to my wonderful betas, Pam and Zakiyah. You two are incredible! And of course, since this story was written in answer to the 4th TLWFix Challenge, I need to send out a big, grateful thanks to Carolyn, webmistress of http://www.tlwfix.com, for obvious reasons ;)

***

**Part I: To Hold**

Exhausted, Marguerite collapsed against the turned soil, rubbing at the taut muscles in her forearms. The heady scent of jungle earth wafted up to her dirt-smudged nose as her back and head sank into soil she'd spent the morning loosening. The battle against weeds was neverending.

Her stomach clenched, burrowing in on itself in a futile attempt to ease the hunger that snarled its displeasure at her. Marguerite moved a hand up to her face, inspecting it, sighing at the soil particles that had made their home in the faint ridges of her fingertips. 

She'd reached the stage where she was mostly indifferent to additional dirt -– at this point, it was impossible to be any filthier. Not caring about the mud she was likely to create, Marguerite rubbed at her sticky skin, dredging away perspiration and assuaging the itchy discomfort it caused.

The sun was in her eyes. Colored stains trimmed with whitish translucence seemingly drifted among those high, high clouds. Unreachable.

From this vantage point, the clouds appeared to brush the treehouse. _I wonder what they're doing up there. Without me._

_I wonder if they know (or care) just how dangerously ill I feel..._

It wasn't the physical effects of silently working in the garden for hours, alone, without food, drink, or sun protection that had her so concerned. It was the emotional unease that plagued her most: that feeling of abandonment. In the years before the Challenger Expedition, Marguerite had successfully pushed aside the worst of her pangs of loneliness. But now that she'd experienced the warmth of having a family, the idea of her being cast out of its circle quickened her heart to a fearful pounding. 

Why had she been temporarily exiled here? And was it evidence of worse things to come?

Marguerite closed her eyes. _I will never finish this garden,_ she thought dully.

Veronica had informed the brunette quite viciously that coming up to the treehouse for a meal or for a little human companionship was OFF LIMITS until she was done ridding the garden of the thick bunches of weeds that threatened to smother it.

No one in the treehouse had understood the sharpness behind Veronica's tone...but no one except Roxton had stepped in to defend the utterly confused, still half-asleep Marguerite. That had stung a little, but it hadn't been unexpected. Challenger had quietly slipped off to his lab -- and had Ned not left on his bizarre quest for self-discovery, in all likelihood the scientist would have been followed by a journal-clutching Malone.

John had tried to lighten her sentence, but Veronica had remained firm. It was time for Marguerite to pay her dues, to make up for all the work she'd weaseled her way out of.

_Huh?!_

Marguerite swallowed hard. Perhaps if she very quietly went up into the shade of the treehouse and, in her most pleasant voice, asked Veronica for a drink of water... Marguerite would make it clear that she intended to get back to work immediately...but just one drink...one sip...she wouldn't even say a word to Roxton, although to hear his voice would certainly invigorate her once more...

"I'm PATHETIC," Marguerite suddenly groaned aloud, squeezing her closed eyes even tighter. _Where had those tears come from? How could this be? Marguerite Krux...crying...over a little hardship...what had happened to her?!_

"Marguerite?" John whispered gently from behind her.

"Oh great," Marguerite grumbled. "Now I'm hallucinating him! Of course I had to leave my hat up in the treehouse...too much _sun_ for you, Miss Krux!"

A hand -- clean! -- on her face. A shadow falling over her limp body, shielding her. Marguerite opened her eyes hesitantly.

"John?" she breathed in delight. "But..."

"Challenger agreed to keep Veronica occupied for a bit," Roxton smiled conspiratorially. "Here -- I brought you some water. It's BRUTAL out here!"

"Not anymore," she whispered, letting him help her into a sitting position.

"How are you faring?"

"I finished the potatoes," Marguerite shrugged. "Just started the squash a few minutes ago."

"No, I meant how are YOU faring," Roxton clarified.

"Oh," she blushed, surprised at the positive attention. "I'm fine," was her automatic response. She carefully laid the canteen down, careful not to spill a precious, glimmering drop.

"Mar--Try to keep it in your shadow; it will stay cooler longer," Roxton interrupted himself. She complied wordlessly. "Oh Marguerite," Roxton sighed. "What _happened_ between you two?"

Marguerite dropped her face into her dirt-smudged hands, mumbling something incomprehensible. Covered with the white crisscrossing of scratches, her fingers stung but fortunately didn't bleed. 

"Marguerite, Marguerite, look at me," Roxton said gently. "I can't understand what you say when your voice is muffled like that."

She looked up. "Sorry."

Her listlessness made him nervous. Usually when she'd done something provoking, she transformed into her usual spitfire self -- shielded and defensive. And now...now she just sat there and squinted against the sun.

"You look like you need a hug," Roxton said softly.

"Don't be ridiculous, Roxton; I'm all dirty."

"Oh Marguerite, don't you know?" he shook his head sadly. "I don't care! Whatever happens, I'll always want to hold you; I'll _always_ hold you!" 

"Oh," she said, her voice high and uncertain. Unable to get Veronica's accusing voice out of her head, she offered him an tentative, "Oh, thanks."

He moved closer, pulling her onto his lap and wrapping his arms around her sun-reddened skin. Marguerite was right, she really _could_ have used a hat! 

The decision was instantaneous. Roxton plopped his own hat -- the hat that had once belonged to his brother, that had seen him through the hellish years after William's death -– down onto her dark and tousled head. Her eyes widened.

"Oh John, I couldn't!"

"Of course you can," he disagreed warmly. "Just make sure you have it back in pristine condition next time I see you. Deal?"

"Deal!" she smiled. Roxton felt her arms snake tightly around his torso. His heart thudded out its pleasure.

"John?" she whispered.

"Yes?"

"What you asked before."

"Yes..." he held his breath. Best to remain quietly supportive when she shared a confession, he'd learned from experience.

"I don't know."

"What?!"

"I didn't _do_ anything!" she wailed, hating how pitiful she sounded. "Veronica forgave me for the Jacoba incident long ago, and I can't think of anything else that could merit how nasty she's been to me these past few days...oh John, I don't deserve this. It reminds me of..." her voice trailed off, and she blinked hard, guiltily.

"Of what?" he pressed gently.

"Of...the past. The beginning. It doesn't matter. You should go, before she catches you. No need to draw you into this ring of--"

"ROXTON!" Veronica shouted from above, right on cue. They couldn't see how tightly she was gripping the balcony railing or how rigid with anger her spine had become, but her tone made it clear enough.

Roxton smiled grimly, determined to put an end to Veronica's odd behavior before its consequences became even more severe than just a morning in the sun. Before setting her down, getting to his feet, and striding back to the elevator to face the wrath of the jungle-bred woman (who really could yell when the mood took her), Roxton pressed a quick kiss to Marguerite's lips.

_Right in front of Veronica!_ Marguerite thought with satisfaction, elated. _He really does care for me!_

Marguerite took another sip of water, the feel of him still lingering on her lips, ghostlike. She knelt in the soil once more, letting the hum and squealing chatter of the local insect and animal life surround her. The jungle was alive with an invigorating blend of sound and color and energy. Working out here was actually rather enjoyable! Not to mention Roxton's hat was doing an admirable job of shading her from the sun's sizzling rays.

A faint smile settled on Marguerite's elegant lips. Wrapping her fingers around the base of the weed, she pulled.

*

"How dare you!" Marguerite heard Veronica yell. 

"Veronica, stop shouting!"

"I will NOT! Yes, it's a shame that Marguerite never had a childhood, but you can't baby h--"

"Excuse me?! Since when is stepping in _before_ she started throwing up from dehydration and keeling over from heatstroke called babying?! Last I checked, that fell more under common decency and compassion!"

"She has to _learn_--"

"Veronica, something is obviously bothering you, but you have no right to take out your frustration on her! She did nothing wrong!"

"She's been shirking her chores from the moment she got here!"

"But not _anymore_!"

The water was heavy in Marguerite's empty stomach. She relished the feeling, knowing it was there only because someone had cared enough to bring it out to her. 

Listening to John defend her became the final tug that pulled Marguerite out of the swamp of self-pity she'd stumbled into. Feeling the old fury rise within her gut, Marguerite threw down the trowel in disgust. Let the raptors cut their gums on it! Roxton was right. She had nothing to be ashamed of! She had no reason to stay down here and do penance when she no longer _deserved_ to!

A moment later, Marguerite stepped off the elevator.

Veronica whirled on her. "Where are the tools?"

Indicating limbs that trembled from overwork and hunger, Marguerite replied calmly, "I left them in the garden."

"I'll get them," Roxton said immediately, before Veronica could launch into another tirade. Honestly, it was almost as if Veronica and Marguerite had switched places -- Marguerite refusing to lose her temper, and Veronica shouting at everyone and everything within range. "Veronica, you start dinner. Wild boar takes hours to cook."

"I know that," Veronica hissed. "Do you think I don't know that?!"

"Well," Roxton began as the elevator started to descend. Marguerite was smiling gratefully at him. "I thought you knew a lot of things, Veronica. But now it seems you've forgotten."

*

_midnight_

Marguerite had been sprawled on her bed for hours, but still, sleep was as elusive as her peace of mind. Her eyes traced the elaborate lines of thatching that shielded her little room from sun and rain, and all the while she wished her thoughts could be as neat and orderly. If only she could arrange her qualms in tidy little bundles to march in straight rows, around and around, until she'd finally moved past each and every one...

A stirring at the doorway drew Marguerite's gaze.

"How're you feeling?" Roxton asked, the worry lines on his face deepening.

_Shaken. Confused. Utterly, utterly drained. And if I had the strength, I'd be furious too._ "Fine enough," Marguerite said aloud.

Roxton moved silently into the room, sitting down on the edge of her mattress, near her stomach. For a moment, Marguerite considered telling him off for presumptuously assuming that she was perfectly comfortable with him plopping down on her bed. And then she realized...she was! She wanted him there, familiar and safe and as close to her as a lover.

Marguerite swallowed hard. Too many thoughts, too much to deal with. The idea of sleep beckoned, sultry-voiced and mesmerizing. Tomorrow, she would work through everything. Tomorrow...

"Marguerite. Marguerite!"

Her head jerked in his direction. "Hmm? What? What?"

Roxton cocked his head. "Lost in thought?"

_Lost? Most definitely!_ "Oh, _yeah_," Marguerite said sarcastically. "Undressing you in my mind."

Although Roxton couldn't suppress the thrill that raced up his spine at her blatantly flirtatious remark, his concern for the enigmatic brunette remained at the forefront of his mind. Frowning, he rebuked mildly, "Marguerite, we can tease later. _Now_, I'm really worried about you. Do you feel rehydrated yet?"

With her chin, Marguerite indicated her dresser. The sculpted glass pitcher, half full, was gathering transparent beads of moisture on its sides. "I'm working on it," she said dismissively. "Any more questions?"

"Actually, yes," Roxton said slowly. "Why are you shutting me out?"

Marguerite groaned. "Oh please."

"It's a perfectly reasonable question! We shared a really nice moment this morning, Marguerite, but now you've decided to pull your disappearing act again! Marguerite, _why_? Talk to me!" Roxton burst out desperately.

Marguerite stared at him. And stared at him. And kept staring.

She must be missing something. Was it _really_ possible that she had nothing to fear from him? Just resting in his arms this morning -– after he'd snuck down to 'rescue' her like the knight in shining armor he was –- had been perfect. So perfect, in fact, that once she'd had time to mull it over, it set her on edge.

If there was nothing else she'd learned from the life she'd led, it was that perfection was an illusion.

Cautiously, Marguerite sat up, wary of catapulting the tightness in her temples into a full-fledged headache. Tentative fingers reached for his hand. Solid. Warm. _Real_ -- not a façade.

"You know, I can't believe I'm even considering sharing this with you," she said incredulously.

"You have nothing to fear from me, Marguerite," Roxton said quietly, afraid to breathe, afraid to move and startle her back into her shell. "I hope you know that."

"I have--" Marguerite began in a croak. "I have...my pride..."

"I'm not asking you to give it up. I'm just asking you to not hold it as a barrier between us."

A small sound of –- fright? acknowledgement? -– broke from Marguerite's throat.

"Do you think I'm going to lose respect for you if you admit to having insecurities like every other human being?" Roxton finally demanded bluntly.

Marguerite said nothing.

"Because I'm not going to," he reassured her emphatically. "I _will_, however, be impressed by your courage, since I know this is hard for you--"

"Do I cling too tightly?" Marguerite burst out suddenly, surprising both of them.

"What?!"

Now that she'd started, Marguerite found she could no longer restrain the flow of the words. "It's just that I never had a fa--a group of friends like this before," Marguerite blushed. "And now that I've finally been given a taste, I'd do anything not to lose you all. So then I thought...maybe I've been clinging too tightly. Lately Veronica and I have started...talking more. Truly talking. I even--" Marguerite broke off. _Even confided, to a very small extent, some of my feelings for you._ "Maybe it started to annoy Veronica. I mean, it makes sense! Honestly, why would anyone in their right mind want _me_ as a sister? I'm--"

"Marguerite!" Roxton interrupted. "Don't torture yourself any longer -- no need to even finish that train of thought. I guarantee you it's pure nonsense. Not that I'm belittling your ideas," Roxton added hurriedly. "We both know you're an incredibly intelligent woman. But wild ideas born of too much time worrying alone in your room should be quashed as soon as possible, I say. Yes, we are a family--"

Marguerite's eyes widened.

"--You can say it; no one will mock or disagree with you. Not only that, we're _your_ family, if I heard your half-word correctly, and proud to be thought of that way."

"So then what is it?" Marguerite said softly. "Why has Veronica suddenly made it her mission in life to make me miserable? I thought I was finally done with..." Her voice trailed off.

"Done with what?" Roxton prompted gently.

"Done with being other people's punching bag," Marguerite whispered, her eyes distant. Her body tightened with the memory. And then suddenly she was falling, plummeting uncontrollably into his arms. And he caught her; he caught her as he always did, right when she needed him most.

Roxton laid her gently back down on the bed, freeing one arm so he could reach for the glass of water on her nightstand. She gulped it greedily.

"Whoa..." Marguerite said breathlessly. "I don't know what happened...suddenly I just couldn't find 'up.'"

"It's all right," Roxton soothed. "It's not abnormal for dizziness to accompany dehydration. And anyway," he continued lightly, although he meant every word from the bottom of his soul, "I promised I would always hold you, didn't I?"

"You didn't promise..." Marguerite murmured, so low Roxton wondered if it was perhaps his own memory prodding him.

"Well, I'm promising now," Roxton said firmly, and then he lay down beside her on the bed, spooning her body against his. 

He held her, Marguerite realized, as if she were the most precious thing in the world to him. _Is it possible I truly am?_

_After all_, she reflected, _he is to me._

*

"Here's the plan, ladies," Roxton announced the next morning to the occupants of the breakfast table. The two sullen women resolutely refused to speak or make eye contact with each other, and both their plates remained mostly untouched. Challenger, disliking the unspoken tension, had escaped to his lab a few minutes previously. 

"I'm going to go out hunting today," Roxton continued amicably. "And the two of you will be left alone to sort things out. George will most likely remain happily ensconced in his lab, giving you all the privacy you need -- but keep in mind, there _will_ be a witness if one of you decides to maim the other," Roxton cautioned, attempting a lighter tone, which went stubbornly unacknowledged by both women.

"Be careful, John," Marguerite finally said, her voice slightly hoarse from the disuse of sleep and the lack of breakfast conversation. "Hunting all alone."

Veronica rolled her eyes. "What she means is, try not to get killed because _she's_ obviously inadequate as a hunter and would never be able to take your place. And then the only man who ever cared to whisper sweet nothings in her ear--" Veronica started derisively, the degrading intent behind her words scathing.

"Is _that_ what this is about then?" Marguerite exclaimed, furious. "You're just jealous!"

"Hey!" Roxton cut in. "Not until I leave. And yelling wild accusations will only inflame the situation. Can't you just talk it out like mature adults? Level voices, reasonable comments--"

"Me?!" Veronica said scornfully, setting down her teacup with a small splash. "Jealous? Of you? As if y--"

"Veronica! Then just say no. No need to begin another round of insults!" Roxton barked, rapidly losing his composure. "And why not?!" Veronica yelled, glaring at Marguerite even though it was the hunter's question. "I wasn't going to say anything that wasn't deserved! She's a nasty, self-serving--"

Marguerite's eyes widened in astonishment. "You hypocrite! How can you sit here and tell me I'm nasty when you've made it your business to make me miserable these past few days?! And for no apparent reason! At least I _had_ a reason when I had to push everyone away--"

"Oh joy, and now she'll graciously reveal another piece in the puzzle that is Marguerite Krux's secretive life," Veronica snapped sarcastically. "Do you want me to fall at your feet now? And go on and on about how sorry I am for your heartache? Yeah, well, my parents disappe--"

"Yeah, well, I never had parents," Marguerite retorted, mimicking Veronica's phrasing as well as her tone. "At least yours raised you and loved you before they were killed!"

"They are not dead!"

Marguerite narrowed her eyes. "You know, I've supported you in your quest for them for years...because, yes, I could relate to what you felt. I guess I always just sort of assumed that you'd give that back when it came to _me_, to the hell that masqueraded as MY life!"

"What hell?" Veronica mocked. "Everything is always Roxton this and Roxton that and Roxton said and did and gave-- Did it ever occur to you how insensitive that is?!" the jungle-bred woman accused. "To push your happiness in my face while my Ned is off on some deranged quest, probably about to get himself killed, leaving me -- just as my parents did. But you don't seem to see that when you look at me, do you? All you see is some innocent little girl who'll be enthralled by your stupid little tidbits, the things you deign to reveal to me. I'm just a faceless replacement for the sister you could never have!"

Marguerite's mouth opened and closed, frantically searching for something to say, something to spit back. But there was nothing, just a deep layer of shock at Veronica's words. How twisted their relationship had become, each horribly misconstruing the actions and wants of the other!

Veronica blinked a few times, breathing heavily. "So it's true then," she said numbly. "Everything I said. You didn't deny it."

Marguerite shook her head dazedly. "No...no, it's just-- so far off base that I'm--speechless..."

"Right," Veronica said, obviously unconvinced. "Well, when you get your voice back, which I'm sure won't take long since Marguerite Krux is never without a biting comment--"

"There's a difference between banter and deliberately intending to hurt someone," Roxton interrupted sharply. _Marguerite and I fought because we didn't yet understand how to love, didn't yet understand why we so craved to hear the other's voice raised, reassuringly alive and spirited, ready to face another day of hardship in this dangerous place._ "What I just witnessed was _not_ the former."

And then he walked out. It was hopeless to try to calm such strong-willed women once they got this riled. Best to just slip out quietly and let them have it out in private. Marguerite probably wouldn't want him to hear her being belittled or degraded, and chances were she'd appreciate a little time afterwards to compose herself. She hated appearing vulnerable in front of Roxton. It bothered him, but he liked to respect her wishes. 

"It wasn't the latter either," Marguerite said softly. "I think both of us just interpreted certain things incorrectly--"

"Says Dr. Krux, the--"

"Veronica, STOP IT!" Marguerite burst out. "Just stop. I didn't start this, but I'm doing my best to end it. Why won't you cooperate?!"

Over the past few days, Veronica had felt her footing become weaker and weaker, but she'd grown so angry that she no longer understood -- or cared about -– the reasons for her fury. Maybe she had misunderstood something; maybe her recent thoughts were senseless. It didn't matter to her though. All that mattered was that she release this anger-demon...and yell and yell until she was too caught up in the current to feel her own hurt.

"Did it ever occur to you," Veronica inquired neatly, her tone as sharp and deadly as the knives she hurled with such agility, "that I simply have no desire to call you my friend?"

Gasping, Marguerite's mouth fell open. The burning in her lungs was the only thing reminding her to breathe as the brunette stared at the woman she'd once thought of as a sister. _No desire, no desire...my friend? No. No desire, no desire..._

Veronica spun around and stalked over to the elevator 

_It's okay_, Marguerite tried to calm herself. _I don't really need Veronica, I guess, as long as I always have Roxton. But...I never would have believed that Veronica would turn on me, and yet...she did._

_So how can I know the same won't happen with John?_

_No, but Marguerite, he promised, remember? He promised! To hold you for always._

_Roxton never promises what he doesn't mean._

And here was something she was just beginning to learn. The betrayal of one person did not imply the potential betrayal of another. _Roxton is not Veronica._

_My John is not Veronica!_

Still...the safety of Roxton's arms did not negate the emotional stabs Veronica had inflicted on Marguerite. The brunette ran a finger lightly over the kitchen table, its wooden surface worn from years of use. She pushed a little harder, endeavoring to sketch a ridge in the smooth tabletop.

But it was useless. She was ineffectual. Powerless.

With a start, Marguerite realized there was moisture on her cheeks. She touched it hesitantly, taken aback, and then she was sobbing -- wracking sobs that left no room for conscious thought.

Outside, the sun shone. 

***

**Part II: To Know**

Roxton readjusted his hat against the glare, absently rubbing his fingers over the coarse strap of his rifle. There was no real need for fresh meat yet; he'd simply needed an excuse to leave Marguerite and Veronica alone to sort out their recent differences. Roxton hoped against hope that he'd return to find the two of them laughing together over piles of laundry or dishes. How he prayed that awkward, stony silence would dissipate!

_Silence_, his mind echoed back to him. _Silence!_

Roxton frowned. Something was off. He froze, listening intently.

_Where are the creatures you were pretending to hunt? And what could possibly have spooked them?_

Absolute silence reigned. No screech of birds, no monkey chatter, no dinosaur roars, no trickle of water, not even the gentlest whisper of wind. The only sound was the muffled crunch of his own footsteps. In the lush, vivid jungle, the quiet was anomalous and sent an eerie chill racing down his spine. A sudden, loud crack -- so intense he could feel it in his bones -- reverberated across the plateau. Roxton turned, instinctively knowing where the sound had originated. Terror grabbed his stomach as he muttered, "The treehouse," and took off in a dead run.

*

"Hey! HEY!" Roxton shouted. _Thank goodness my estimate was a little off...the treehouse is still a safe distance away, a half a mile at least._

The stranger did not look at him, did not even appear to hear; he simply continued firing manically as he whirled around, eyes darting suspiciously.

"It's gone! It's gone!" Roxton yelled, ensuring that he wouldn't be this frenzied man's next target by crouching down behind a fallen tree. Its crusty bark had fallen into the hollow, dry-rotted insides of the trunk. "Not only that, everything's gone! You scared all the bloody predators away! You can stop shooting now!"

The man turned around, head cocked quizzically. "Hmm?" He looked around. "Why, you're quite right, chap! Mm, sorry about that; sometimes I get a little carried away."

_A little?!_ "Well," Roxton said lamely. "You're safe now. Were you hurt?"

Retaining a tight grasp on his gun, Roxton stood up cautiously, stepping around the massive wooden trunk and the smaller one that had impaled it. His breath caught; the splintery foot of the thinner tree was scorched and chock-full of tiny punctures. _He shot this young oak so many times in one area that it finally couldn't support itself anymore!_ Roxton slowly pieced the puzzle together, noticing the chaotic parade of raptor claw marks in the uneven ground. _And when it fell, it also brought down its neighbor: a colossal, hideously rotting tree. The crack I heard! _

"Just some scratches from when I tripped," the man replied cheerfully. 

Roxton cautiously adjusted his hat, scrutinizing the man's pudgy, rubbery face and the deep lines etched into his pasty skin. _Were those laugh lines or worry lines? Could this man be trusted?_ He gave the appearance of a lost, innocent traveler who'd been wandering in the same disheveled clothes for weeks. _Or is that what he wants me to think? Blazes. Uninvited guests drop in on us all the time, so why did I choose now to become paranoid? _

The man's lips were a dying shade of brown. When they stretched into a wide, almost mindless grin, the effect was grotesque. _I have a bad feeling about this,_ Roxton thought ruefully.

_No easy feat, to cause this much damage with only a hand pistol. The man must have no restraint. To just keep shooting without thought like that...! Oh, be reasonable, John. He was probably just frightened out of his wits._

"Say, what's your name, ol' fellow?" the stranger inquired amiably with an expectant widening of his pale eyes.

"Lord John Roxton," the hunter replied distantly, concentrating on his thoughts.

_I suppose I really should bring him back to the treehouse to make sure he's all right..._

Roxton winced. _I'd hate to invite such a trigger-happy character back with me, especially during such, ah, turbulent times. Leaving him here might be for the best...it's not like I owe him anything...and if it comes down to it, I'm most definitely the faster runner--_

Oh, who am I kidding? Roxton sighed. His sense of honor would never permit him to leave a old man alone and frightened in dangerous territory.

"John Roxton, you say?!" the other man chirped excitedly. "Oh goodie!"

Roxton shot him a strange look. "Goodie?" _Oh damn it all -- he seems to know me! These situations have never turned out well...!_

"You're just the person I was looking for! Is the woman who goes by Marguerite Krux still alive?"

Roxton's gut clenched. _Oh no..._ "Why do you ask?" he demanded suspiciously.

The man fished a cream-colored calling card out of his pack and cheerfully passed it over. "Because I'm her father," came the casual reply, only a moment after Roxton's fingers had closed over the offering.

Shock. Roxton watched in amazed horror as his subconscious took over and the paper fluttered the ground, a silent testimony of his disgust.

The other man didn't notice. The breeze blew crumbs of dirt over Marguerite's true last name, and her father's next footfall landed heavily on top of it.

The animals had begun to venture out noisily once more, but John didn't need to hear the sound of ripping paper to feel it in his gut, a twisting spiral of sorrow.

*

There were half-dry tears on her cheeks. Roxton leaned down and brushed them away tenderly, feeling a tightening in the space where his heart rested.

The man dropped his grimy pack on the ground next to the kitchen table, then looked at the English lord inquisitively. Roxton bit back a sigh and explained sotto voce, "She cries in her sleep sometimes. But don't tell anyone that," he warned forcefully. "Especially not her, because I don't think she's aware of it – or would appreciate knowing."

The familiar and eagerly awaited sound of his voice nudged Marguerite from the restless doze she'd fallen into after all that thunder and lightning with Veronica. Her eyes still closed, Marguerite asked groggily, "Tell me what?"

Roxton grunted noncommittally. "Someone's here to see you, Marguerite."

She opened her eyes. A stout, squat man of about sixty stared down at her, his expression unreadable. "I don't believe we've met," she said warily. 

"Ah, my dear, are you sure? Think harder...try to remember as far back as you can."

Marguerite's brow wrinkled. She still drew a complete blank. Shaking her head, Marguerite stood up. Being taller always made her feel more confident, more powerful in the face of a potential threat. 

Outside, two raptors snarled loudly, circling each other. In the treehouse, however, the charged air remained silent. Roxton clenched his jaw, deciding it was this grubby man's right to break the news however he saw fit. Subtle or blunt. Gentle or agonizing. Free Marguerite from the doubts of her past, or crush her in their accuracy.

"I see you still have the locket we gave you," the man said suddenly, his narrow eyes bright like ice. 

_I can count on one hand the people that know that this locket was given to me by my parents...and none of them have been to Europe since to tell._

Marguerite stared at the blue of his irises, a color so flat and unmarred by tiny speckles or waves of a different shade that he looked almost inhuman. "Okay," she said slowly, her voice even – as devoid of inflection as his eyes were of depth. _You are the man who fathered me._ "Okay..."

Roxton's breath came in short, angry gasps. If there was an excuse for this man's callous abandonment of his daughter, it sure didn't look like it! The hunched little man didn't seem at all happy to see his daughter, at all sorrowful of the time he'd missed out on...instead he seemed to merely _expect_ something of her, and Roxton had an ominous hunch that whatever it turned out to be, he wouldn't like it.

The newcomer tired of waiting for a dramatic reaction that wasn't coming. "Marguerite...darling...come give your daddy a hug!" He pulled her clumsily toward him. Roxton tensed, as did Marguerite, who pulled herself violently out of his grasp.

"What in bloody hell gave you the idea that you had _any_ right whatsoever to do that?!" Marguerite exclaimed, stumbling away from— from her father? She backed right into Roxton, who carefully maneuvered her next to him. Marguerite didn't protest his careful and somehow intimate handling of her.

The elderly man brushed himself off. _Thank heavens she kept contact to a minimum; the little witch gives me the shudders! Unfortunately, a nice father-daughter hug would also have done wonders in the way of ridding the noble of that suspicious demeanor._ Quickly, he composed himself. "Well, quite frankly, Marguerite, that really wasn't the response I was expecting."

"First of all, if you really are my-- father, then it's the reaction you deserve; and second of all, why should I believe you really are who you say you are?" 

"Good Lord, child, I'm starting to remember why we sent you to all those convents." He turned to Roxton, seeming faintly amused. "She really is rather savage, isn't she? You know the nuns refused to keep the little beast unless I donated massive sums of money annually? The number of wings added on because of her is astonishing; we left a trail from Paris to Munich to Vien--"

Marguerite's mouth dropped open. Roxton's arm crept around her shoulders, a silent _'I'm here for you.'_ Lips pressed into a thin, bleached line, she glared at the stranger. "Get. Out." 

"Marguerite, for all your faults, surely you would never resign your own papa to imminent death! It's a jungle out there!" He laughed at his own lame joke, the literal use of a figurative expression. "Come on now, how's about you pull off my boots, cook me a hot, delicious meal...oh, my poor feet are simply aching, and my stomach! Haven't eaten in—"

"Do you think I give a damn?!" Marguerite snapped. Her body was coiled so tightly that she wondered if it was possible to crack apart from sheer tension. "What about ME? Why did no one ever take care of ME?!"

This was too much. _Could this day get any better?! First Veronica, now THIS..._

She turned her back. "Roxton, I want him out of our house."

"Our?" the newcomer piped up, desperately trying to appear paternal. "Do I have a son-in-law? Or maybe a few grandchildren?"

Marguerite refused to acknowledge him, and Roxton ignored him for the moment as well. 

"Marguerite," Roxton whispered, low enough that only she could hear. "If there are sides in this--which I see that there indeed are--I am on _yours_. I'm behind you all the way, no matter what. But still...we can't throw him out. That would be killing him in cold blood, and you _know_ we don't have the right to do that."

"You didn't live my life, Roxton," she retorted. "Don't tell me what judgments I do and don't have the right to inflict!" He tried to hide his wince, but Marguerite saw it and immediately sighed. "I'm sorry. The fierceness in my tone wasn't intended for you."

"I know," he comforted. "We'll let the others deal with him for the moment. You can take a breather, get your cool back. Or maybe," Roxton amended carefully, "would you like to talk?"

"No," Marguerite said, following the dictates of her reflexes. But then she looked again into his eyes. So kind. So...loving. "_Maybe,_" she clarified; then deadpanned, "Or maybe I'll just hurl heavy objects at the wall and you can clean up the resulting mess."

Roxton smiled, concealing the tinge of sadness as best he could. "It's a deal."

"Ahem," their uninvited guest spoke up, tapping his foot. "Weren't you two ever taught not to tell secrets? Honestly! Your generation is just-- Your manners--!"

Roxton bristled. "With all due respect, sir--"

"No respect is due," Marguerite muttered.

"--it seems to me that you don't really have the right to make statements condemning the manner in which 'our generation' was raised...considering you neglected to have a part in that process," Roxton intoned stiffly.

The other man shrugged. "I had no desire to rear a child so full of evil--"

Roxton felt a tremor run through Marguerite's body. "That's ridiculous!" he erupted, exasperated. "Babies aren't cognizant enough to be evil. But a father who abandons his own flesh and blood--"

"Demon!" the newcomer bellowed, raising his arms in a wild gesture of frenzy and shaking his head madly. He actually seemed quite insane, Roxton realized. Legally so. Perhaps the hospital where Marguerite had been delivered had _forced_ this man to give his daughter up?

Roxton latched onto the thought desperately. It was perfect! Better insanity than simple callousness, and better to be forced than to willingly—

But no. He said he'd paid for Marguerite's stay in the orphanages and convents.

So perhaps he'd asked to finance her whereabouts even if no direct contact was made? Did that mean, in some twisted way, that this father _had_ cared for his daughter? Somehow?

Or had he been forced to by the legal system?

_I knew it_, Marguerite thought wildly as she watched this man who was her father stalk in confused circles around the plank floor, muttering incoherently to himself and waving clenched fists in his fury. Still, she felt a certain buried satisfaction at being right. Years ago, the 'mother' she'd hallucinated in the Cave of Fear had expressed similar ideas about the infant Marguerite -- a child so obviously different, so obviously *evil*... 

_There's something eerie about me, something not quite in sync with everyone else...like the way I can fluently read languages I've never seen, speak languages I've never heard of, and sometimes I just instinctively KNOW things...and my parents sensed that, I suppose, only they interpreted it as inherent wickedness..._

But it's not. It's NOT.

(It's not?)

Marguerite tore away from him, calling over her shoulder, "I'm going to get Challenger!" Her voice was strained, bursting with both rage and barely restrained tears. Inwardly, Roxton sighed. What a difficult revelation this must have been for her.

All she'd wanted was a name. His name, her name, her mother's. A sibling too? No need for introductions. No need for even a face, a personality. Just a name: ink on paper, a few syllables to hang in the air. Proof of a history – but the history itself was better left unknown. 

_What you don't know can't hurt you._

Too late.

*

She ran, her sun-streaked hair streaming out behind her shoulders. Recently Marguerite had shown her how to mix up a gel-like substance that added more volume, bounce, and wave to her shoulder-length locks. 

Just another good deed Marguerite had done that Veronica hadn't reciprocated.

Veronica slowed her pace, realizing she couldn't continue blocking these thoughts forever. Running in a numb haze would simply leave her exhausted, but if she walked pensively...

"Begin at the beginning, Veronica," she said aloud into the jungle. "Why are you so angry at Marguerite?"

_Because Marguerite has found her happy ending, even though she spent her life being a real, well, bitch. Yet I've done everything right -- helped others, spoken kindly, not killed unnecessarily...and what do I get for it? I get to watch Marguerite flourish under Roxton's touch, while my Ned (oh, who am I kidding, he's not my Ned, and he probably never will be) leaves me so he can gallivant around the jungle on some misguided quest in which he'll probably get himself killed. And then what will I do?_

"All right," Veronica decided slowly. "So I'm mad at Ned for not giving me what Marguerite has, and I'm deathly jealous of Marguerite. Oh, and furious at her for getting what I don't think she deserves. Okay then."

The jungle-bred woman sighed, feeling a blush rise up her tanned skin. It sounded so petty in words.

_Marguerite didn't deserve the treatment I subjected her to, and I would never dream of behaving that way toward anyone else. But I guess she just gives the impression that she brushes it off without really caring either way...yet even if that WAS true once, which I'm beginning to doubt, it's no longer true now. I really hurt her; I could see it. _

Why didn't I stop?

"Pride," she muttered, yanking a dagger from her boot and hurling it at a tree. The silver glinted through the air, elusive. "Stupid, foolish pride."

*

Marguerite flew down the stairs, swooping into Challenger's lab with the speed of a pterodactyl. The scientist looked up from his microscope to find her sagging against the wall, regaining her breath.

"My dear girl!" Challenger cried. "What is it? You're shaking!"

"He...my..." she stammered, looking at him with wide eyes.

Challenger rapidly pulled off his lab gloves, threw them down on the counter, and hurried over to her. "All right, you know I don't have your gift with languages, Marguerite," he reminded soberly. "You need to calm down so we can fix the problem together." 

Marguerite straightened and glared at him. "No need to speak to me like I'm a child, George." 

Taking her trembling hands in his own, Challenger chose not to retort. "Just start from the beginning, Marguerite."

She swallowed hard, stunned and looking for all the world like a small child, frightened and confused. "My father. He's here."

*

Challenger put on his grandest, most self-assured smile, the one he reserved for meetings of the Royal Zoological Society, and walked out to greet their guest. Marguerite trailed behind him warily. "George Challenger," he announced himself, holding out a hand. 

The tense heiress slipped over to Roxton's side, face carefully blank.

"Albert de Moliére," the other man replied genially with a cool but polite handshake.

Marguerite grabbed Roxton's forearm. "Marguerite de Moliére," Marguerite breathed, her voice strained. "Did you hear?"

"It's a beautiful name," he told her quietly, as if it were just the two of them. "Elegant. It suits you."

"Her? Elegant?" Albert snorted. "Actually--"

Roxton watched Marguerite's eyes begin to widen in combined fury and dread. He shot an anxious look at Challenger, who caught the gist of the problem and immediately blurted out the very first thing that came to mind. "So, Marguerite and Roxton. Hard to figure out those two," he jovially informed Albert. "When they're not bickering instead of breathing, they'll do anything for each other -– although they'll probably poison my food for admitting it!"

"Ah, so my daughter likes poison. Ah ha!" Albert laughed, his pudgy face creasing. The others didn't understand the humor, but Challenger and Roxton chuckled weakly anyway, for the sake of graciousness. Marguerite frowned.

"Yup, Mr. de Moliére, Roxton really has it for your daughter. When Marguerite says 'jump,' Roxton jumps!"

Smirking, and intending to make her smile, Roxton gave an experimental hop. "How high, Marguerite?"

"High enough to bump your head, Roxton, _darling_," Marguerite said sweetly. Deep down, she felt a tingle of surprise at her quick, confident reaction. _Good job, Marguerite. Impressive._ Yes, she'd been thrown for a loop today, but her reflexes were strong, and they'd kicked in pretty quickly. Now, she could once again easily act –- although not feel -– like her usual self.

Roxton laughed and put his arm confidently around her, feeling her own arm slip gracefully around his waist in return, snake-like.

"Really, Marguerite," de Moliére remarked darkly. "One would think you could show a little more respect to the man who deals with your foolishness!"

Marguerite raised an eyebrow coolly.

Hastily, Roxton assured, "Oh no, Mr. de Moliére, we like it this way. The teasing, I mean. It keeps life interesting." _A neutral enough explanation. No need to go into the complex rationales behind it._

Challenger quickly reentered the conversation. "So, who'd like some lunch?"

De Moliére brightened visibly, turning to his daughter. "Lunch would be magnificent! Something with--freshly stewed meat, vegetables roasted in their own--"

"Actually, I don't cook," Marguerite said evenly.

Albert gaped. "You what?!"

"Well, it's not like I had a mother to teach me!" Marguerite bristled, her tone sharply accusing. And then, the questions she'd been afraid to hear answered spilled out. "What happened to her? Where is she? What was her name?" Unconsciously, Marguerite leaned forward desperately. "And _why did you give me up?!_"

Eyes darkening, de Moliére spat, "How dare you ask me about her?! A woman like you--"

"Hey!" Frustrated, her patience lost, Marguerite turned deadly. "I don't have to take this. This is MY home. I owe you nothing -- I could throw you back out into the jungle and never think of you again. So WATCH your step, Mister. One more--"

And for one horrifying instant, it appeared de Moliére was going to succeed in smacking his daughter. Marguerite's hand shot out, fingers cinching around his wrist, halting its motion a mere few inches away from the tender skin of her temple. At the same moment, Roxton grabbed Marguerite by the shoulders, intending to yank her out of harm's way. Off balance, she fell heavily against the hunter's chest, but so tight was her grip on her father's arm that she pulled him down with her.

The faces of father and daughter were nose to nose. "Touch me again," Marguerite bit out, eyes narrowed menacingly. "And I swear, you won't live to see another day."

Albert de Moliére brought up his other hand from within the folds of his coat with deliberate precision and wrenched her hand off his. "And you had to ask why we abandoned you," he murmured with false softness. "An abomination like you. You had to ask."

"Get out of my home," Marguerite said coldly. Later, she would cry. But not now, not when she was so filled with burning, righteous fury and disillusionment. Marguerite tore the locket off of her neck, snapping the chain cleanly with a single downward thrust of her clenching fingers. Flinging it disdainfully at de Moliére's feet, she spat, "I have no father."

Unaffected by the vehement words directed at him, her father knelt and scooped the necklace up with interest. Disgusted by this show of insensitivity, Challenger took de Moliére's arm and escorted him grimly to the elevator.

There were two short, stinging scratch marks under her knuckles from where that man had clawed her in order to free his other hand. A few drops of blood trickled sluggishly out of the double cuts. _This is what my father has given me._

Dreamlike, Marguerite held up her arm. Roxton bit his lip. "My heritage," she said.

*

Veronica crept silently toward the giant tree that supported her home. An intruder sat against its base, holding up to the light a silver chain from which swung a small, elegantly curved heart.

He stared at it pensively. _Most likely calculating its worth_, Veronica decided, and then she pounced, her knife held menacingly at his throat, blurting out the first words that came to mind. "HOW DARE YOU STEAL MY SISTER'S LOCKET?!" 

The jungle-bred woman's voice carried. Up in the treehouse kitchen area, Marguerite's jaw dropped at the choice of term. Had the moment not been so profound, Roxton would have chuckled good-naturedly at the comic sight the brunette made, wearing her shock like a second skin.

Seated calmly on the grassy ground, de Moliére looked up, amused. He leered, his gaze not on Veronica's face. "What, dearie? Marguerite doesn't have a sister." 

"Who are you?!" Veronica demanded.

"Why, I'm the man who fathered her."

The fierceness vanished from Veronica's face. She stared at the man through a defeated, hollow haze, thinking, _So Marguerite not only finds love, but she finds her father as well..._

Will I be lucky enough to get even one?

His nonchalance and quite obvious indifference escaped Veronica. In her mind, all she knew was one word, endlessly repeating, like a lullaby. Or a taunt.

_Father, father, father..._

Dully, Veronica lowered her knife and stumbled toward the elevator.

High above the ground, Marguerite froze, momentarily paralyzed by the implications of the creaking sound the elevator ground out. It could only be descending in response to Veronica's signal. "Roxton," she said faintly, carefully setting down the potato she'd been peeling distractedly. 

He gripped her elbow reassuringly. "Yes? Do you feel okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine, but a little tired," she admitted. "Would you mind if I turned in early? Tomorrow, tomorrow, I'll deal with everythi--"

"Marguerite," Roxton warned gently. "Running away will only make it worse in the end."

"Oh, I have no intention of running," Marguerite de Moliére promised, her lips in a faint curve. "You know me, I'd rather sit and relax in the treehouse. Anyhow, my boots are nearly worn out!"

Roxton smiled softly. "All right then. I'll-- I'll check on you later, if-- if you wouldn't mind." To scare her away now would not only nearly kill him, but leave _her_ without someone to lean on.

Marguerite blushed. To her surprise and delight, she was finding that she actually enjoyed this 'getting closer' business. It wasn't bumbling and uncomfortable like she'd feared; instead, it was endearing to watch Roxton switching back and forth from I'm-putting-my-foot-down mode to tentative mode. He was, quite frankly, adorable! And for once, all this positive attention wasn't making her feel like she should scramble away and hide before her less-than-savory qualities and baggage came to light and flipped the situation. In actuality, Roxton was making her feel that regardless of her past, she was _worth_ something. He was spending time and energy seeking her out, and for the first time in her life, Marguerite felt special.

"I'd like that," she murmured, her contented smile strangely juxtaposed with the hurt in her eyes -- after being 'stabbed' doubly today by Veronica and her long-lost father, even _John_ couldn't simply wipe that pain away. There was John, and then there was magic.

At the sound of the elevator nearing, Marguerite hurried off. She couldn't face either her father or a returning Veronica. Not yet, and certainly not today.

Veronica stepped into the main room and faced Roxton, slumped. "Where's Marguerite?"

"She just went to bed. Veronica, whatever your problem is with her, you'd better sort it out quickly. Her father's flung some pretty heavy stuff at her--"

"I did. It's sorted." Veronica's tone was clipped. "Why's he outside?" She paused. "Or were you being literal when you said 'he flung?'"

"Was referring to verbal abuse." Roxton spoke tersely. "Then he tried to hit her, but neither of us were prepared to let that happen. And that was when we threw him out."

"Where was Challenger during all this?"

"There, for some of it. Watching that man treat Marguerite like dirt shook all of us up more than a little. Now he's in his lab, burying himself in work. He mumbled something to me about plans to synthesize more of Marguerite's favorite shampoo from that Harrod's of hers. It's a distraction for both of them."

"I have to see her!" Veronica cried.

Roxton caught her arm. "No, Veronica."

"I want to apologize," Veronica pleaded desperately. "I need to!" _Poor Marguerite! What lousy timing I had, blowing up at her right before a disaster like this..._

"Yes, you do," Roxton said sharply. "But not now. You know Marguerite has a hard time with emotional situations. She's only recently begun to allow herself to truly _feel_. What with all that's happened today--I don't think she can take anymore, even if it's positive in nature. We don't want to overwhelm her." _And possibly force her into reburying her feelings!_

Veronica bit her lip. "Okay," she said miserably. _Coward! You're just letting Roxton help you buy time, and you know it!_ "I'll be in my room then, if you need me. If that man tries anything again, or something."

"All right. Check in with Challenger before you go though. You were gone awhile. He worried." _Blazes, Veronica, you couldn't have picked a worse time to shake things up!_

Veronica blinked. Roxton had said 'he'...not 'we.' Was that intentional?

But she didn't ask. She was too afraid of the answer.

_Like Marguerite, this is the only family I have now. _

Have I just destroyed it?

***

**Part III: To Hold (reprise)**

Marguerite awoke to throbbing.

Her heart seemed to be pounding out of her chest, as if yearning to escape the cage of her ribs. Through every inch of her body, she felt the blood hurtling, propelled by her frantically pumping heart. 

_Why why why?_

Fear gripped her. The edges of her vision were blurring-- fading-- white. She lay perfectly still, but even so she could feel the wild pulse inside her veins, even more prominent and painful in the V of her ribcage, her forehead, her right thigh, her wrists...

_What is happening to me?!_ her mind screamed, terrified. Even after outrunning the various prehistoric monstrosities that often foolishly attempted to make her their lunch, Marguerite's heart had never hammered so. _What is wrong?_

It was difficult to get enough oxygen into her lungs, and this sudden onslaught of fear only worsened the circumstances. 

_HELP ME!_ she cried, eyes wide. But no, there was only the faint hissing of air through her lips. _ROXTON! CHALLENGER -- get out your stethoscope and HELP ME!_

Nearly hysterical with desperation, Marguerite decided to give up on her voice for the moment. It was then that she spotted what might be her salvation.

Marguerite could _feel_ the energy being sapped away by the heart that beat double-time in her body. Using her very last reserves, the fierce brunette somehow managed to extend her left arm off the bed. It flopped against the now-warm water pitcher from the previous night. With the last of her determination, Marguerite thrust the heel of her hand forward, forward, forward.

*

The crash was a faint one; it didn't do anything nearly as melodramatic as resound through the treehouse or set the floorboards rattling. Nonetheless, Roxton heard it, and his entire body trembled in response. "Marguerite!" he shouted, throwing down his oily, rifle-cleaning rag and sprinting out of the room.

His estimate of a distant sound had been slightly off that morning. But not this time. The noise had come from Marguerite's bedroom, and her immediate safety was too important for hesitation. And so he ran.

Unbidden, the image of the double cuts that graced her slim hand flared in his mind's eye. The manic expression on her father's face and his attitude about poison sprang to Roxton's memory next. 

_No. NO!_

This is too important for hesitation. This is too important to blunder.

No time for denial, for searching for subtlety, no time to spare her feelings...

"Her father!" Roxton shouted over his shoulder to a startled Challenger and Veronica, who had come running when he'd screamed Marguerite's name. "He's poisoned her. Get him up here!" 

The professor and the jungle-bred woman acknowledged him with terse nods and took off in the direction of the elevator.

Throwing aside the curtain that served as Marguerite's bedroom door, Roxton slid to a halt. "Marguerite," he murmured brokenly.

She was so pale, as pale as the thin nightshift that clung to her now-sticky skin. He stared at her anxiously, his heart plummeting as the minutes ticked by. Finally, her gaze rolled sluggishly to his. 

"My heart," she breathed raspily, with effort. "It hurts."

Roxton knelt by her side, reaching out a hand to smooth the curls away from her forehead--

"DON'T!" de Moliére, flanked by Challenger and Veronica, bellowed from the doorway. "You can't touch her!" On the bed, Marguerite's hand twitched limply on her stomach, the two scratch marks now swollen and crusted black. Her father's eyes lit up. "It's started," he intoned manically.

"What did you say?!" Roxton spun around. "_I_ can't touch her? After you poisoned your own daughter, you're saying _I'm_ forbidden to touch her?!"

"By now the toxin will have been absorbed into her skin cells and can be passed on through even momentary contact," de Moliére replied proudly. "But you, a man of noble blood, do not deserve to die for her sins. Stand back!"

Challenger looked up at Veronica. She nodded, grabbing hold of Albert's arm firmly. "Don't move," she gritted out. "I won't hesitate to bury my knife in your back." 

Challenger darted forward, but before he could reach Marguerite, de Moliére rammed his elbow viciously into Veronica's unprotected midriff. She doubled over, gasping, as he swiftly drew his gun. "No," he said calmly. "YOU don't move. I came a long way for this, and I intend to see it through."

_And again I've failed her_, Veronica thought, utterly dejected and disgusted with herself. _She needed me to keep this monster at bay, but I underestimated his daring. I didn't honestly believe he'd try anything, outnumbered like this! And now she's going to pay the price._

Behind him, Roxton could hear faint whimpers from the bed. "How can you do this to her?" he gasped. "She's your daughter!"

"Oh, well, it was very simple, really, although creating the poison itself took a lifetime, sadly enough. A shame that she had to go on wasting your food supplies for this long. But I digress!" he chuckled. "In the pocket of my jacket is a hardened bar of what appears to be a simple black powder, and right before I scratched Marguerite, I simply slid my nail through it, coating the edge with a toxin so potent that not even she can resist it, now that it's in her blood..." Desperately, Roxton pleaded, "What about the locket?! 'To our daughter Marguerite: forever in our thoughts,'" Roxton quoted. "You must love her! Or at least have cared for her once!"

"We had that engraving done before she was born. We didn't know yet what was in store for us." De Moliére's eyes darkened. 

It was all too apparent from whom Marguerite had inherited her temper. However, her face had never twisted so, her eyes had never burned with such a wild gleam, and she had never appeared so-- well, _crazy_.

"And what was in store for you? What could an infant possibly do?" As Roxton spoke, he gestured animatedly with his left hand -- to draw attention away from the fact that, with his other, he was pulling a pistol from his belt.

Albert de Moliére choked back a strangled sob. "_She murdered her mother!_"

And then all the pieces clicked together in the hunter's mind with a clarity he'd honed from years and years of trying to figure out Marguerite. Roxton breathed, "Her mother died in childbirth..."

"That demonchild sapped the life from the only happiness I ever had!"

On the bed, Marguerite sniffled in time to her throbbing pulse. Salty trails explored her cheeks and neck, and the listless and overwhelmed Marguerite simply let them.

"And you went mad with grief," Roxton murmured, filling in the obvious blank.

"I need to start treatment immediately or it will be too late!" Challenger interrupted anxiously.

Roxton demeanor adjusted to one of deadly seriousness. Narrowing his eyes against the glare of de Moliére's well-polished pistol, he said forcefully, "Move away, old man!"

But neither one was ready to back down. Challenger watched from the sidelines helplessly. He'd examined Marguerite to the best of his ability from a meter away, and even from that distance, he could see the pulse in her neck throbbing. _Palpitations...damnation, I need Summerlee! Which plants can slow the heart?_

Challenger wrung his hands. "A depressant must be administered soon before her whole body shuts down from the strain!" 

"One step closer, and I'll shoot!" de Moliére threatened.

"You're crazy!" Roxton kept his gaze locked on the madman as he commanded, "Challenger, do it."

"NOOOO!" de Moliére bellowed. "She needs to pay! She needs to die her mother's slow death -- only then can my beautiful wife's soul rest in peace--!" He swung the gun around, aiming it at Challenger instead of Roxton. His finger tightened over the trigger--

Roxton fired.

The hunter looked from the crumpled, bleeding man on the floor to the trembling and semi-delirious woman on the bed. "I'm sorry, Marguerite!" he cried, painfully aware that there were still so many answers they had yet to find. Albert had never revealed his wife's -- and Marguerite's mother's -- name. "But I did it for you..."

Each desperate intake of breath made a faint hissing sound, ominous proof of Marguerite's struggle. As weak as her voice was, she did her best to sound soothing. "It's okay," she gasped out. "My parents were dead to me already...and that man...was not...a father..." Marguerite broke off with an incoherent scream of pain. "What IS that?" she cried at Challenger. "Are my-- my veins bursting?"

"George, do something!" Roxton urged frantically.

"Well," the scientist answered dejectedly, looking up from a whispered conversation with a grimacing Veronica. "I'm at a loss. There aren't any plants in our stores that can treat heart palpitations. Marguerite will have to ride them out the natural way, at least for now, I'm afraid."

Marguerite shrieked again, awkwardly repositioning her limbs to clutch at a sudden burning pain in her side. Roxton darted forward--

"Don't, John!" Marguerite shouted. "Don't touch me!"

Roxton shook his head stubbornly. "I will not let--"

"And I won't let you die, Roxton," Marguerite retorted fiercely. "Don't you dare lay so much as a finger on me!"

"But--"

Reflexes honed by years of living in constant danger kicked in once again. 

"I'm fine," Marguerite informed him, although she very obviously wasn't. "Really, this is nothing. I've lived through worse. Now," her voice waned, but she was not to be deterred. Marguerite fought harder. _Inhale, exhale, inhale..._ "Get Challenger into his lab, and once he gets too distracted, don't forget to bring him his meals--" 

Yet once again, she was cut off as another strangled scream tore from her throat. _Oh, this is ridiculous_, some distant part of Marguerite thought indignantly. _How dare my body just give up like this...and now I can't even control these bloody shrieks!_

And then her body jerked, went slack, and lay ominously still.

Roxton watched in horror as the skin over her jugular abruptly ceased its frantic flutter. Her slim neck, cushioned by the pillow, appeared sweetly relaxed.

Too relaxed.

_She isn't dead she isn't dead she isn't dead she isn't dead..._ Roxton's thoughts swam.

"Oh, that isn't good!" Challenger burst out in worry. "Given the trouble she had breathing while conscious, I'm worried her body won't be able to keep it up without a cognizant mental shove."

Roxton gaped at the scientist. "Well, do something about it!" he bellowed, grabbing the scientist by the shoulders and shaking him in an uncharacteristic display.

Challenger straightened, taking in Roxton's wild-eyed form. Fear for a loved one did horrible things to a person. "For _her_ sake, John, pull yourself together!" 

Roxton shook himself. After passing a hand a hand roughly over his mouth, he said gruffly, "Done." 

With a nod of acknowledgment, Challenger rapidly instructed, "You wake her up -- and quickly -- without touching her; I'm going to work in the lab. Call me if there's any change."

Challenger carefully extracted the bar of poison from the dead man's jacket pocket, spearing it with a pen seized impulsively from the desk. Roxton heard him leave, but his eyes never left Marguerite's tranquil face.

Roxton highly doubted shouting her name would be enough to rouse her; nevertheless, he tried it anyway, with no success. The lord didn't particularly relish the thought of prodding her with a sharp object, but then, what else could he do? Her dresser was littered with stray gems she'd unearthed, but he couldn't very well simply fling them at her silky skin. He peered around the room helplessly. Silk scarves, another pen with a meanly pointed nib, a mirror -– what was he supposed to do, _reflect_ her to consciousness?!

Heaving a rather shaky sigh, Roxton realized he needed to make his decision quickly. With every second he let slip by, the risk increased that not only would she be _difficult_ to wake up –- but she would _never_ wake up.

He noticed the floor had been swept clean; the shards of the pitcher lay in a small, glistening pile in the corner. The lifeless body of Albert de Moliére had been dragged out as well. _Veronica must have done it,_ he mused. _Yes, she had seemed to fade into the background while all this was going on -– that must be why. _

Pitcher.

Roxton swiveled around. Yes! The glass Marguerite had been drinking from the night before was still unbroken on her nightstand, and not only that, it was half full! 

Afraid to look at his timepiece, Roxton began to flick droplets of water at her in somewhat of a frenzy. Still, she did not stir. Finally, desperately, he poured out half of the water directly onto her neck, watching it stream over the seemingly motionless contours and seep onto the pillow below, darkening the fabric with its sudden gush.

Marguerite awoke with a gasp, shivering. She blinked twice at Roxton, seemingly confused. "John?" she asked doubtfully.

"It's me," he assured gruffly. "How are you feeling?"

"Wha--but it can't be you," she said slowly, squinting at him. 

Roxton did a double take. "Pardon?!"

"John said he'd always hold me," Marguerite informed him matter-of-factly, although her voice was weak and wispy. "He meant especially when I needed comfort. And since I'm sure being fatally poisoned by your own father qualifies, John would be here, holding me, just like he said. John doesn't lie. But you...you're not even holding my hand."

Roxton stared grimly at her, noting the dilation of her luminous gray eyes. Marguerite would never speak so bluntly and allow herself to sound so vulnerable. _So the poison has finally reached her mind, altered her judgment, weakened her proverbial walls...but is she babbling, or is the utter trust in her voice really present when it comes to me, and she just never showed it to this extent before? _

"Who are you? Where's John?" Marguerite asked in a small voice.

"I'm right here, Marguerite," Roxton choked out. "It's me. But I, I can't touch you bec--"

"You're lying!" she cried. "My Roxton would never--"

"Marguerite, listen to me--"

"What have you done with him?" Marguerite interrupted coldly. "Who are you? Some sort of shapeshifter? Another alien? A fairy, a witch, a--" 

"Marguerite, Marguerite!" he cried frantically as the pitch of her words rose alarmingly. _Her weakened voice turns so strong on my behalf?_ "Don't yell; don't waste your energy!"

Right on cue, another stabbing pain hit in her lower torso. Marguerite's back arched with a snap, then relaxed just as quickly, leaving her looking dazed and frightened. "Give him back," she pleaded desperately. "I need him!"

"You need me?" he whispered. 

He couldn't help feeling guilty. Was it right to let her admit all of this to him when she was under the influence of a deadly poison? And then the inevitable unwanted thought: _She might not get another chance. And you have a right to know._ "Marguerite, I need you to listen very carefully, alright? It IS me," Roxton said miserably. "You know I could never leave your side when you're in pain! But the--"

Marguerite's eyes filled with the liquid shimmer of tears. "John?"

He nodded, fists clenched with the effort of not reaching for her.

"Oh John..." she whimpered. "I'm cold; I'm so cold...hold me, hold me, hold me...please...you promised you'd always hold me...you _promised_--"

"Marguerite," he cut in brokenly. "I need you to _listen to me--_"

"You promised, you promised, you LIED!" Marguerite shrieked.

Roxton cringed. _"My Roxton would never lie," she'd said._

"You're right," he breathed in a whisper. _All this time I've been thinking that I need to keep myself healthy so I can take care of Marguerite, but Marguerite doesn't need cold compresses and hot teas -- Marguerite just needs to feel loved._

Half of the 'antidote,' Roxton believed, would be a fierce will to live, a desperate desire to fight death's all-encompassing embrace in favor of--

Well, his own.

"I'm back, my Queen," Roxton whispered, one hand firmly entangling his fingers with hers. "It's me." 

Marguerite's eyes lit up when she felt his reassuring touch on her chilled skin. "John," she sighed happily, childlike.

Roxton swallowed hard. _Marguerite, I can't lose you! I can't, I can't, Marguerite!_

The pounding of widely spaced footsteps grew louder and louder. Challenger burst into the room.

Roxton snatched his hand away from Marguerite's guiltily. _Reflex. Odd. Why did we always feel so ashamed to be seen touching the other?_

We had so many chances here, on this plateau, so much time. We wasted it.

"How are you holding up, Marguerite?" Challenger asked gently. It was a tone he didn't use often.

Marguerite didn't answer. Instead, she continued to stare at Roxton, stricken.

Challenger bit his lip. "Marguerite, I sterilized this tissue scraper; now I need to take a sample of the black residue on your cuts. It's going to sting a little, but I need you to hold still -- if you jerk, I might draw blood, and that's the last thing we need."

"Challenger," Roxton said firmly. "You CAN cure her, can't you?"

"Of COURSE there's a way," the scientist replied diplomatically, distantly, as he scraped carefully at the scab.

"Good," Roxton replied steadily. "Because now it's double or nothing."

"WHAT?!" Challenger shouted, his head swiveling to stare at Roxton in disbelief and reproach as he instantly realized what the other man must have done. "Do you realize you just committed suicide?"

"No, I didn't, George," Roxton countered with a calm learned in the sequestered monasteries of Tibet. "I have utter faith in you. You'll figure something out. You _always_ do." He reached out to clap the scientist on the back, then aborted the gesture with a jolt as he realized it would be deadly for the other man. 

Challenger sighed heavily. The scraper slipped. A few drops of blood bubbled up, but the slow, weak pumping of her heart could force out no more.

But apparently it still stung like hell.

The added pain launched Marguerite out of the silence she'd wrapped around herself to ease the much greater sting of Roxton's betrayal. _Why did he pull away? Why did he **let me go?**_

"John!" she shrieked, thrashing. Her voice was high and clear, but her eyes were cloudy. "Oh, don't leave me alone, oh please don't leave me alone...don't let go of me, John, John, please!"

Roxton shoved past Challenger and crawled into bed with Marguerite, careful not to jostle her. Her eyes fairly lit up when he nestled her against him. "I'm here, Marguerite, and I'm not going anywhere. Now rest, okay? I need you to get better." The words sounded brave though, but the voice behind them cracked repeatedly with emotion.

Challenger swallowed hard at this new development. Would he have done the same for Jessie? Was her comfort and peace worth that much to him? 

"All right then," the scientist said gruffly to Veronica, who had sprinted in when she'd heard Marguerite's screams a moment earlier. "I'd guess we have about an hour to combat the infection before the onset of palpitations in Roxton, which is something I'd really like to avoid."

"And Marguerite?!" Veronica's eyes widened. Had Challenger given up hope? Distraught, she looked over at the bed, noticing the limp way the brunette lay cradled in Roxton's arms. _Marguerite is going to die, and the last thing I said to her was 'I don't want you as a friend!'_

Challenger glared, gesturing that they should speak outside. Veronica followed him meekly into the shadowy hallway.

"The problem with Marguerite," Challenger explained, "is that her infection is far more advanced than Roxton's, so a much stronger counterattack will be in order.

"I've analyzed the original block of poison," the scientist continued. "As well as the black coating left at the point of entry, Marguerite's cuts. It's an incredibly complex poison, ingenious. Luckily for us, I believe the antidote isn't nearly as complicated. In fact, it could be considered relatively simple in comparison to the various other concoctions I've devised. However," the note of pride in Challenger's voice gave way to one of despondency, "The plant I need isn't in our stores." He held up a sketch taken from one of Summerlee's packets of plateau-related papers.

"That's a three day journey from here!" Veronica gasped.

Challenger nodded.

"So there's nothing you can do?!"

"I didn't say that. But without this plant, my options are _severely_ limited--" he broke off, looking with some concern at Veronica. The lithe woman's face had taken on a strange glow in the hollow half-light that bled out of Marguerite's room.

Suddenly, Veronica tore off into her bedroom with a gleeful shriek.

"Veron...?" Challenger started, taken aback.

"I just remembered!" Veronica called excitedly over the din of what sounded like objects being frantically, thoughtlessly, dropped onto the floor. "Challenger, get over here!"

Hope swelled within him as he dashed through the corridors. "What? What? What is it? What are all those books?"

"One second...one second..." Veronica mumbled distantly, flipping through clumps of pages in a dusty volume. The splintery leather binding crackled faintly. "Damn it!" she cried, frustrated, as she slammed the useless book down onto her dresser. But she pressed on diligently, this time searching through a book with faded gold embossing. Challenger watched with a wrinkle of confusion between his blue eyes.

"Eureka!" she cried, unconsciously imitating an expression the professor was wont to use. Veronica passed an open book to him.

But when Challenger looked down, it wasn't a veritable fountain of knowledge that awaited him, as he'd expected. Perhaps not, but it was still a cure.

Between the yellowed pages was a flower chain. Paper-thin and wispy with age, the dried petals were the color of smeared blood, and the leaves were a cracked, brittle green.

Challenger inhaled sharply, his eyes widening till they stung. "Is this...?!"

"Yes," Veronica breathed eagerly. "It IS! Can you use it, even though it's dried?"

"Veronica, that makes my task even easier! Do you have any idea how much time you've just shaved off?" Challenger gestured excitedly. "I can skip dehydrating the petals now, and jump _straight_ to crushing them into a versatile powder!" 

The scientist carefully closed the book, tucking it under his arm. "Do these flowers carry some significance?" he asked, his voice blending curiosity with a fatherly instinct to keep his voice gentle and comforting. "After all, you've remembered about them for what appears to be many, many years."

"That was the last gift my mother ever gave me," Veronica said quietly. "The day before she and my father disappeared." The jungle-bred woman swallowed hard, fidgeting with her leather armband. "Marguerite's parents may have tried to kill her, but mine can save her life. Go, Professor. Crush it. Just please...not in front of me."

With a sober nod, Challenger watched Veronica plunge herself busily into the task of returning the books to their proper places. "You're doing the right thing, Veronica."

"I know," she whispered, mostly to the voice in her head that had just reassured her of the same thing. "I just hope it's enough. To make up for all the WRONG things I did."

*

"John?" Marguerite gasped, jerking her worn-out body upright and peering wildly about. 

"I'm right here!" Sitting up as well, Roxton pulled her toward him immediately. Her hands sought the firm reassurance of his flesh, her fingers closing tightly over the area where shoulder curved into neck. "You pulled away from me in your sleep..." It had confused and saddened him.

Marguerite's facial muscles tightened. "Oh," she said, voice strained. "Not you. A previous...acquaintance." She shuddered. "Hadn't thought of him in...ages." Looking at Roxton almost shyly from underneath her eyelashes, she thought, _And it's you I can thank for that!_

Roxton placed a tender hand under her stiff back, helping her into a prone position once more. Noticing the wet stain on her pillow from when he'd used a splash of water to awaken her, Roxton quickly flipped it over, then eased her head onto the dry material. "There," he said. "Good?" 

There was a subtle rippling of the muscles in Marguerite's face. "Uh..." she sighed softly.

Roxton winced. He should have phrased the question differently. How could everything possibly be 'good' after the events of the day, which currently appeared as if it was going to end in death? He studied the slim contours of her face, noting the way her gaze had darted nervously away from him. 

"Um, Roxton?"

He looked down at her expectantly. "Yes, my darling Queen?"

Marguerite's eyes widened at the endearment. "Uh...what are you doing here? What's going on?!" _Did we...?_

"Oh no," Roxton sighed. _Memory loss? Does this bloody poison have to stick its figurative fingers in EVERYTHING?!_ "What's the last thing you remember?"

Marguerite's face fell. "My father. He tried to hit me."

"And in the process, he also," Roxton started heavily, hesitating, "poisoned you." 

"Oh," Marguerite said distantly. "So, father in the biological sense only, I suppose."

"Marguerite...if you want to talk about it..."

"No, no. I'd much rather talk about why you're in my bed...I can't believe I don't remember!"

"Well," Roxton said lightly, trying to adopt her relatively cheerful –- or numb – mood for his own. "You'll be pleased to know I'm only here because you told me off with considerable skill – you knew exactly which buttons to push, even though you were delirious."

But Marguerite didn't grin indulgently, as he'd expected. "What did I say?!" she queried vehemently. 

"Not the L-word, don't worry," Roxton winked.

Marguerite swatted his arm weakly. "John!"

"Although you did call me a liar –- does that count?" he asked ruefully, unable to shake the sense of guilt she'd conjured. How had he even CONSIDERED letting her down?

"I did?" Marguerite asked, her soft tone incredulous. "I must have REALLY been out of my head! I know you, John. I know you wouldn't lie."

He smiled weakly at her. "Are you comfortable? Would you like another blanket?"

"Yes," she said soberly. "I would." 

And then she tugged on a clump of his shirt, pulling him down to her so that his head lay next to hers. She guided his arms around her body, nestling against him. "There we go," Marguerite said contentedly. "_Now_ I'm good."

*

Veronica poked her head into the doorway of Challenger's rather cluttered lab. The counter over which he presided was littered with an assortment of test tubes, ranging from nearly bubbling over to infused with twisting spirals of chemical color. The professor muttered importantly to himself, occasionally leaning over his precariously balanced scientific equipment to scribble on paper ripe with acid-edged holes. 

Surrounding the microscope were a variety of glass slides and even more hastily-drawn up notes. Time was of the essence! 

Most of the candles Challenger had lit to illuminate his workspace had been transformed into malleable clumps of molted wax topped by blackened ash. Only a few retained wicks that still flamed, and even that light was dying down. The scientist didn't seem perturbed, however. It was almost as if he relished the dimness that cloaked outside distractions, keeping them safely out of his naturally curious gaze.

With a small, satisfied smile, Veronica wisely crept away.

*

"Roxton," Marguerite murmured drowsily, awakened by the wild hammering under her cheek. "John, you need to wake up." The poison was taking its toll on both of them. Limp and listless, it was all Marguerite could do to nudge him weakly in the side. "John, you _really_ need to get up! Sleeping through the palpitations is BAD, remember?" she desperately reminded his inert form. "Come on..."

Marguerite blinked away tears. His whole body was vibrating with the force of his pounding heart, and the most she could do for him was whisper urgently. _Well, at least he's not in any pain this way... _

"What a horrible way for us to go," Marguerite mused softly, her voice sounding as drained as she felt, "although my arm does look awfully nice around your chest. I don't have the strength to twist around right now, but I'm sure yours looks wonderful around my body too," Marguerite rambled to the sleeping man who held her. She was just so _scared_. "Don't tell anyone, but this is nice, you know? Lying here with you like this. When your heart woke me up, I finally remembered everything that happened, but it doesn't matter now. I'm dying, I can feel it. My body is just...shutting down. 

"Challenger will keep trying, I'm sure, but it's too late for me. And I don't want the last thing I think about to be my father and what my life was like before I joined this expedition and how he's just killed me. I didn't want to know my history," Marguerite confided miserably. "I just wanted to know I had one. And you know why I wanted that, John? Because what could a man with 350 years worth of noble ancestry possibly see in a little orphan girl who only managed to survive through disreputable means? I've stolen, I've lied, I've cheated, I've _killed_...but maybe, if there was even a _fraction_ of noble blood in me, Society would accept me, and I could become," Marguerite took a deep breath, "your wife. And we could live happily ever after in London. Sounds silly, doesn't it?" she said with a sigh. "Yeah, that's why I'm only telling you when you're _asleep_."

Roxton mumbled something, shifting a little in her arms.

"Roxton? Roxton!" Marguerite exclaimed. "Of course, you decide to wake up NOW," she grumbled under her breath. Roxton's eyes remained closed. "Oh, John, I was just kidding about that last remark, really; come on, rise and shine," she urged. "I DO want you to wake up, I swear."

Roxton opened his eyes wearily. "You know, I think I liked sleeping better," he groaned dryly.

"I know it hurts," Marguerite soothed. "But it'll stop soon."

"No, no, it's okay...but how are YOU feeling?"

"John, it doesn't matter. Can we just," Marguerite fumbled for the words, "enjoy each other's company for a while? I think I...I think I don't have...long."

"Marguerite! Oh, don't you DARE give up hope! I can't live without you, you hear?" Roxton forced out vehemently, clutching surreptitiously at his side. 

Marguerite smiled softly, peacefully. "I can't live without you either. Nor did I want to die without you."

"Marguerite," Roxton said warningly. "Stop it. What happened to your never-give-up mentality?"

"Maybe the poison ate that too," she offered. "It's better this way though. I'd rather die at peace than--"

"Stop it; you aren't going to die! Marguerite, you're scaring me. You sound so...far away. Not like yourself at all!"

"That's because the 'me' you're used to seeing took a lot of energy to maintain. Energy I no longer have. Right now, all I want to do is lie here with you and rest. Please?"

"Oh Marguerite..." Roxton's voice trailed off when he noticed Veronica come to a stop in the doorway. He looked at her expectantly. Perhaps she could help infuse Marguerite with new vigor!

"I checked on Challenger a few minutes ago," Veronica said awkwardly. "He looks busy. Didn't want to interrupt him, but all the chemicals surrounding him looked promising."

"Oh," Roxton finally said after a long pause. He'd been waiting to hear something that hadn't come. Marguerite said nothing.

"Listen, Marguerite," Veronica finally burst out. "I was wrong. I was. I'm sorry. I'm _so sorry_." She fidgeted nervously with her hands. "Please forgive me. Please."

Roxton started to sigh in relief, but stopped when he saw Marguerite's indifferent face. "Okay," Marguerite whispered. "Sure." _She didn't deserve for it to be that easy. But honestly, I'm too tired to care._

Bowing her head, Veronica slipped away. Marguerite returned to snuggling against Roxton, a contented smile on her face.

His heart pounding faster and faster, Roxton feared he would soon lose consciousness altogether. But first, there was something he had to do. "Marguerite, I need to say something," he began.

"I'VE DONE IT!" Challenger shouted gleefully, practically dancing into the room. "The antidote! It tested out! The larger amounts I'm synthesizing should be done within the hour. I'VE DONE IT!"

Stunned and unsure what to do with the sudden burst of happy energy within her, Marguerite began to laugh.

"I knew you could!" Roxton declared proudly, and then he passed out. 

Marguerite quieted, looking at him in worry. Using strength she hadn't realized she still possessed, Marguerite shifted and touched her lips to his cheek. "Be okay," she murmured tenderly. "I need you."

*

_One week later_

"Roxton, you dimwit, you're going to fall! Get back in here!"

"Did you say something, my Queen?" Leaning over the balcony railing, Roxton inhaled another breath of fresh plateau air, then straightened reluctantly. His torso once again safely ensconced in the Treehouse, Marguerite relaxed. _The man has no fear!_ she thought indignantly. _No, that's not it. He's just happy to be alive._ She smiled at him. Pleased, he smiled back.

"Roxton, what did you need to say?" Marguerite asked suddenly.

"What? When?" He bridged the distance between them, then covered her hips with his strong hands and pulled her against him. 

Marguerite narrowed her eyes, twisting her neck away from his lips playfully. "That was sneaky, but I'm not falling for it. You don't do 'innocent' very well, Lord Roxton."

"Neither do you!" he teased. "Want to see what I _do_ do well?"

"Sure," Marguerite replied invitingly, sultry-voiced. "But first tell me what you were going to say before Challenger bounced in and interrupted you!"

Roxton cocked his head, pretending to think it over. His eyes twinkled. "But Marguerite! Don't you think people are more interesting when they have secrets?" 

She recognized the reference. Marguerite herself had first used that line on him over a year ago. "You have an impressive memory," she said, sugary-sweet. "Now SPILL IT!"

Roxton grinned indulgently. "Come to think of it, I'm starving. All that fresh air! I wonder what Veronica's whipped up for dinner..." With a hunter's grace, he slipped away from her.

"Roxton! Don't you dare walk away from-- Roxton! Get back--" Marguerite darted after him. "GET BACK HERE!"

He dashed behind the table, allowing Marguerite to chase him fruitlessly around it for a few amusing minutes. Finally, he leaned over and challenged mischievously, "Sure you want to know? You might not be able to handle it, m'dear."

"Try me!"

"All right," he said, turning serious and walking around to her side of the table. Roxton tenderly brushed a wayward curl away from her face, then took her hands in his. 

"John?" Marguerite prompted, beginning to feel slightly nervous. _What if it's not what I think it is? What I HOPE it is!_

Challenger walked into the grand room, whistling merrily. "Mm, dinner smells delicious! Where's Veronica?"

Roxton sighed. Marguerite rolled her eyes in irritation.

"Hold that thought, George; Marguerite and I will be right back," the hunter said politely, edging toward the door with the woman he loved.

Challenger's eyes widened. _Was this a bad time?!_ "Okay." His voice was little more than a squeak. "I'll just...clean these pots over here!" he declared loudly, thumping them together repeatedly.

"No racket is necessary, George!" Marguerite laughed, calling over her shoulder from the hallway. She continued in a quieter giggle, holding tightly to Roxton's arm. "He gives us no credit! Honestly, you'd think the man had never heard of subtlety--"

"I don't think I have either," Roxton decided. "Marguerite, you know what?"

"What?"

"I am hopelessly, desperately in love with you."

Challenger, hearing Marguerite's gleeful shriek of delight, hurriedly threw another few pans onto the counter in an all-encompassing cacophony of sound.

***

_fin _(or is it?)

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